Stagnation
by RobertDowneyJrLove
Summary: A semi-sequel to 'Metamorphosis', in which a tragedy stagnates Chance and Ilsa's relationship and where the author is extremely sorry for what she's done to these poor characters. I am deeply sorry. Trigger warning; rape, PTSD, and darker themes later.
1. Prologue

It's cold.

And, her head hurts.

There's something scorching her veins and settling in her stomach in a tight coil of heat and tension. She can't say that she's in full possession of all of her faculties at the moment - actually, her vision seems a little blurred, images spinning in on each other like a kaleidoscope of _something. _She doesn't know what it is. She's having a bit of trouble focusing at the moment; her brain feels like a bowl of Jell-O. There's a shuffle above her, shifting weight, before it settles over her, wet and crippling and crushing her underneath them. Her lungs compress, expelling oxygen, and unable to take in more. Her ribs feel as if they're bowing under the heaviness, ready to snap, but they're still in tact.

Her top...that beautiful green silk blouse is torn away, buttons washed into the sewer by the rain, and the wool of her skirt is bunched around her waist. Rough, dry hands hungrily roam her body and shred her underwear with deft but clumsy fingers before the weight shifts again, settling between her legs.

And, _holy shit. _

It feels like someone is stabbing between her legs. Repeatedly. _My god, _does it hurt. She isn't certain but this must be something akin to being skinned alive; so much burning and tearing and she's never experienced such excruciating pain before. A mixture of saltwater and rain pour down her cheeks; gasping sobs torn from her throat, vocal cords ripped apart by desperation because she just wants it to stop. Her body hurts and her skull feels like it's been bashed in by a dull instrument, and if there is any sort of deity, she wishes he would just take her now. Anything to make the pain go away.

It is several agonizing minutes of fiery pain before her attacker grows tired and it finally stops. The world stops spinning at a dizzying pace and the weight eases. All she can hear is the sound of a zipper and feet on wet pavement. She doesn't hear the bustle of the city, workers and patrons alike eager to get home for dinner with family. She doesn't hear the cars and trucks and motorcycles grumbling along at a snail's pace because dinner means rush-hour traffic.

The terror of what she just survived paralyzes her, chills the blood in her veins, and dry sobs tear from her already raw throat. The world appears blurred, and her eyes are deceiving her, because she's also seeing ten copies of the same building - the one with the moldy bricks that she'd be hardpressed to forget for a long time to come. Her eyes droop and despite the chill that vibrates down her spine and has her heaving on the concrete, consciousness is slipping further and further from her grasp.

No, Ilsa.

Stay awake.

Think of anything...Guerrero's medical waiver record, Ames' medical bills, or Winston's penchant for alcohol.

Or, Chance.

Oh, god. Chance.

The wild card assassin turned reformed vigilante; unpredictable and crazy and wonderful and the man she'd been looking forward to spending a long time with. Until now, she's sure. She can't bear the thought of what he'll surely think when he sees her. How disappointed and disgusted he'll be. She can't imagine he'll want anything to do with her, not after she's been with someone else, no matter how involuntary it had been. Before she can focus too much on Chance's possible reaction to this, another wave of pain cracks down her spine and she shakes with the sheer force of it. Her eyes close and the last thread of reality she had been holding onto snaps.

Her world goes black.


	2. Reality

To wake up in pain is to know exactly what a rude awakening really is.

And, there are two things, of which Ilsa Pucci is acutely aware. The first being that she is not in that cold, wet, dark alley that would be the source of many a nightmare, she's sure. The second – her body hurts. Her entire body throbs, clenches, and squeezes with a radiating pain. She cannot say with complete accuracy where exactly the source of the pain is – although, she is able to pinpoint with alarming speed where it hurts more. What little she can see of wherever she is, is blurry at best, and there is a painfully bright light above her that makes that annoying throb in the back of her head, more prominent and a little more like someone is driving a knife into her skull. Which, given the rate her night had spiraled rapidly out of her control, is entirely possible. There is only one thing she is not certain of – her location.

She has no memory of moving.

Actually her last memory is of excruciating pain and a heavy weight on top of her and – _oh. _No. She's too groggy and there's too much adrenaline. The room spins; a kaleidoscope of pink and beige and cream. Her face feels hot, flushed and she claws at the blankets, needing them off of her. She feels trapped, caged in.

She needs air.

Fresh cool air.

"Hey, hey, hey…" a cool, wet cloth is pressed into her neck and a soft, feathery voice off to her left rushes into her ear; all warm breath and a tenderness, she's never heard before. "Shh. Calm down. Everything's okay. Shh."

No.

_No. _

Despite the comforting coolness of the cloth, she shrinks back into the bed, turning away from him, and hoping he doesn't see the tears and the redness and the overall bleakness of her current state. She can't – or rather, she won't dare face him when she looks like she does. He's seen her battered and disheveled and almost helpless before but this is different. _She _is different. It's almost as if she's been torn apart for the sole purpose of never feeling whole again.

"You're in the hospital." His voice is gravelly, but still soft and kind, and everything she can't handle hearing right now. "Someone – they, uh, they found you. Name's Audrey – I think? Not sure. The doctor's haven't been in with your results, yet. But, they think that you were – um…"

She doesn't need to hear it.

She _knows. _

The feeling is still there. That terrible feeling of being numb to everything but the pain of your body being invaded by something wholly unwelcome and uninvited. The feeling of violation and of fear that it won't end. He doesn't have to tell her. She knows.

And, she hates it.

#

There's an ashy sort of paleness about her; a frightening gray pallor that, quite frankly, looks a little unnatural. There's a heavy shade of sickening purple that's just beginning to tint around her left eyes and the doctors had found a gash on the back of her head in need of stitching. He knows her short black curls had been shaved off in order to stitch and dress the wound properly and, as much as he likes tangling a hand in them, he just doesn't care, because she's _okay. _Even though there are bruises and scrapes on seventy-five percent of her body, and the doctors are waiting on the results of a rape kit to determine if she had been sexually assaulted or if it had just been a mugging.

She's not dead.

The worst of the worst hadn't happened.

Although from the looks of her, now, whoever had taken her down, had done so with an incredible amount of force and if not for the morphine drip, she'd probably be in an extraordinary amount of pain. The bruises and scrapes would heal but the rape kit - the results, that would determine what lay ahead for Ilsa. And, for him. He still remembers the call; the strange number on his cell phone, the soft voice explaining that his had been the first number on Ilsa's contact list and that Ilsa, herself, was in an ambulance on her way to the hospital.

_"I'm not sure if she'd want to tell you this but she's - I think she's been raped." _

Hector Lopez seems like a faraway memory compared to this.

The monitor beeps next to him as her heart rate increases at an alarming speed and her whimpers echo over the noisy machine. He makes quick work of grabbing a washcloth and soaking it with cold water. She's flushed and her skin would be warm to the touch, he's sure, but he won't dare touch her. Instead, he presses the cloth into her neck at her pulse point and tries his best to soothe her. "Hey, hey, hey.." he's surprised at the sound of his own voice; the tender silkiness in a rushed breath. "Shh. Calm down. Everything's okay."

He watches, helpless, as she shrinks away from him; turning away, hiding herself from him in shame.

He hates that she feels like she can no longer let him see her vulnerable.

There is nothing the doctors could ever say that would ever change his opinion of this woman - this incredible, gorgeous, strong woman. He's seen her battered, disheveled, yes, but he knows that this is different. She's been torn apart, broken down into nothing, and despite knowing what that feels like, there is nothing he can say or do that will ever change what's happened.

"You're in the hospital." His voice is gravelly, but still soft and kind, and everything she can't handle hearing right now. "Someone – they, uh, they found you. Name's Audrey – I think? Not sure. The doctor's haven't been in with your results, yet. But, they think that you were – um…"

No.

He can't say it.

He won't.

Because, to say it, makes it real and he's not ready to face this reality, yet. To face this lump of reality that has become so twisted and gnarled with circumstance would be to face the very real possibility that he could lose her, that he could lose Ilsa Pucci.

And, he's not ready to face that.


End file.
